Recollection (1)

I realise that I've met you before.



I have cared for you, measured your blood pressure and made sure you were eating your meals.



Yet tonight, as I sift through the detritus of the accident and emergency department, you arrive before me again.



Found slumped in the corridor of your sheltered accommodation with no recollection of how you arrived there.



Before I have introduced myself, you ask me how long it takes to die, and I am caught slightly off guard.



We chat for a while, you say you remember me by my accent and manner (which I take to be a compliment).



You have lost weight since I last cared for you. Your beard is longer, your spectacles are growing something green, and the eyes behind them have lost their sparkle. And I hate to add it, but you smell as though you haven't washed in weeks.



You tell me that you haven't slept in 8 days, nor eaten. Simply drunk water.



As you leave to be admitted to an assessment unit, you smile at me and tell me our paths will cross again soon.



Sooner than you think.